


Clockwise

by 4RU



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: AU, Insanity, M/M, POV Second Person, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4569243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4RU/pseuds/4RU
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You vow to teach him the art of madness, and that is a promise you seal to his lips with your own, forming your own perverse contract out of blood and insanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clockwise

**Author's Note:**

> Written way back before the Queen of Hearts was revealed. Speculation sure was fun!

You meet him for the first time in an odd junction between realities. It's awkward, to say the least. Like meeting up with a twin you never knew you had, and for the longest time you both just stare at each other, seeing without seeing, not truly believing what your pretty little eyes are showing you. Trembling fingertips touch hesitantly, but it is soft flesh and not a cold mirror your hand feels, and you would have pulled back as if you had been scalded had he not done it first.

When the initial shock dies down, your hands feel out the similar bumps and curves of skin some more – alien, and yet familiar. He starts up a conversation about music, an obvious passion you both share, and the atmosphere becomes much more comfortable somewhere between Debussy and Chopin – you can't help the swell of pride at the knowledge of his good taste, even if it's the exact same as your own.

Unfortunately; you each lose track of time, and soon the sun is setting over the horizon. You shake his hand and thank him for a pleasant evening, polite as ever, right before the world shifts under your feet and you're back at Latowidge. Everything's in place, as if it never happened, and you decide that you won't be divulging the events of today to Elliot. He asks about the distant look you give to your book, but you shrug it off and weave a little lie about attempting to foresee what's going to happen to some fictional character or another. Your master huffs, but says nothing.

It's really none of his business, anyway.

–

The thing is; you're not entirely sure whether or not your sanity has slipped that much further, and what it bodes for you if it has. The seal on your chest has ticked down to six, half your life gone, half your mind chewed away. It's getting all the more difficult to pretend that everything is normal, but your clever façade hasn't slipped just yet. A matter of time, really. The more you lose, the more exposed you will become.

Laughter hisses somewhere in the deep recesses of your mind, a stuttering cackle that shakes your fragile grip on reality until the lines blur. Everything within your field of vision lurches painfully, jarring your stomach and blithely reminded why you didn't want to seein the first place. It settles, soon; dropping you into a state of not-so-blissful unconscious, where bloody headless corpses litter the floor next to elaborate lace and the finest chocolates. It's become all the easier for you to be dragged here, where the contract burns and your chain dwells merrily.

Despite being an illegal contractor, you're actually on rather good terms with the mad Queen, a small stipulation of the deal you made with her years ago. Sweet nothings are whispered in your ear as you dream, laced with a taste of malice so bittersweet you can almost feel it melting on your tongue. You learn things that really have no consequence – that the other afternoon hadn't been a hallucination, who will be your next victim, which arrangements will need to be incorporated into your next composition – that sort. The Queen is an expert at hinting little clues into idle banters, a poison dart within a raspberry tart, but you don't quite understand the warning this time until everything fades away with the first hints of morning.

He didn't have a contract.

And that would make your next meeting all the more interesting.

–

The overall image is less like a mirror than you originally thought. You're slightly older, more experienced, and somewhat pessimistic in comparison to him. Still, you both appear meek to those who don't know any better, always wound tight and ready to snap the moment something sets you off. It's happened so infrequently as of late, though. You almost miss the torrent of anger that surges through your body when a boundary is overstepped.

You allow him to know this about you, like a dirty little secret you wouldn't trust with anyone, but he's you and for some reason you really don't mind sharing these things. He says he understands, but you know he doesn't, not yet. He doesn't have a chain or a contract, so he just doesn't get the constant madness threading through your body every waking moment.

It is then you vow you'll teach him. Someday. And that is a promise you seal to his lips with your own, forming your own perverse contract out of blood and insanity, tasting of bitter chocolate.

He will be naïve for a while yet, and you look forward to tying him up in knots as you lead him down the metaphorical rabbit hole.

–

One day you wake up and the sky has fallen. The hand ticks to eight, there's a painful ringing in your ears, and your entire body aches dreadfully with each passing second. You're like this for whole minutes, maybe an hour, lost treading the razor's edge of utter agony as even more of your lifespan is slowly chipped away. Someone else has died by your hands, you don't know who, don't know why, but you know there'll be yet another headless corpse for Pandora to discover with still no leads on the murderer's identity.

It's happened before, during the fourth or fifth hour, so you're not entirely surprised.

What is surprising is that when you finally manage to open your eyes and take in the world you don't want to see, you're suddenly not at the school, the orphanage, or the manor. You're not home at all. The garden, though recognizable, is not that belonging to the Nightray family you're familiar with.

And you know this because he's here too.

A wail manages to slip out of your throat, choked and hoarse, and you pass out right then to the sound of haunting laughter.

–

You're stuck in his world, surrounded by mere shadows of the people you've grown close to. It's awkward, to say the very least, far more so than when you first met the younger you. You stare at them all, not quite sure of your place, not knowing if you'll be sent away to the orphanage at Sablier, or even if it exists here. The room they've placed you in is strange, but the bed is comfortable and you're thankful no one changed your clothes or noticed the mark over your heart.

He knocks on the door just as you're sitting up, carrying a tray laden with broth, and you're thankful for even that. It's when Elliot enters that the questions begin, but your little twin won't allow you to speak a word until you've finished the soup, and even punches Elliot when he objects. Another thing you're grateful for, really. It gives you more time to fabricate believable lies.

You settle for a simple explanation for your sudden arrival – you don't know. They can't pressure you for an answer you can't give, and it's easier than blaming it on the Abyss or a chain. You'll have to be careful what you divulge in the future, but for now Elliot accepts your horrible attempt at clarification. If your mirror suspects you aren't telling the truth, he doesn't show it. It's something else to thank him for later.

The two leave when it's agreed that you need more time to rest and adjust.

–

Within the week you're settled into your new life. Still a servant to the Nightray house, but not a personal attendant to Elliot, which is as well. Your duties vary between kitchen and laundry, which is enough to keep you out of the way of any guests there might be. The other servants regard you curiously, but soon enough it dissipates and you're just another one like them.

It's decided that you will no longer be "Reo", but a twin brother to him. Adopting your new name leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, but you grow accustomed enough that you don't glare when someone addresses you as "Leo". Parting with your glasses takes even longer than parting with your name. It really is for the better, though you know you will miss out on the things Leo cannot do – like having pleasant conversations with Oz. Then again, this isn't the world you know, and maybe Oz isn't well-acquainted with Reo.

Though the long days are often passed in quiet monotony, you're content enough that you've yet to maim anyone beyond recognition. And when the little twin returns with his master, you're excused from your duties to be included in their presence for the time they are home. It's a comfortable schedule, and they always seem to know to return when you're tense enough to snap. You haven't yet, but that may be because you've adopted a rather nasty habit of snatching biting kisses from Reo when no one is looking.

Reo says nothing, but he is benefiting well from your lessons on proper application of tongue.

–

Life goes on, with you wrapped up in so many lies it's becoming far more difficult to find any truths. They likely just aren't there any longer; and if they were, they're deeply buried by now. No one ever notices, of course. You're too humble and your words are too sweet to hold any sort of malice. In fact, the only one who knows you aren't as kind as you paint yourself to be is Reo, but he enjoys your teasing lips too much to bother correcting anyone's untrue assumptions.

It seems that the more your mind slips, the more perverse you become. It's not an unpleasant side-effect in your opinion, but Reo isn't getting any pleasure in hiding the marks your teeth leave behind. You think you'll just have to give him even more, if that's the case. A flustered Reo is far more fun to deal with.

The headhunter returns during your third year. The timing is awful, because you've only barely managed to coax little intimacies out of your mirror, which means that he'll be at Elliot's side more often now. Though they do stay at the Nightray manor, you opt to keep to your chores, and see less of them than ever. A frustrating situation, but one you can deal with.

You do manage to coax Reo to follow you one day into the kitchens, pressing a meat cleaver into his hand and showing him how to properly use it – about time he learned the fine art. It's therapeutic, and you murmur words into his ear that has him shuddering against your grasp. You show him the best way to cut through bone and muscle tissue, and you reward him with a promising kiss in return.

If he asks about the impromptu lessons, you shrug it off with a dastardly smile.

–

When the clock strikes twelve, Elliot is dead and the Abyss opens its hungry maw wide. Ribbons of lace wrap around you, bloody and smelling of the faintest hints of chocolate, dragging you down into the black depths. You laugh as you go, a hissing cackle that displays your utter madness, not fighting the pull in the least. Reo watches, dumbstruck as your final hold on reality gives way. That's fine, of course. The seeds of your insanity have been planted long ago – they will bloom soon.

The darkness awaits, and between the Queen's giggling and your own maniacal glee, you swear you can hear Tartini ringing beautifully in your ears.


End file.
